


Two-Fourty-Three

by spinalfluidsample



Category: Eddsworld - All Media Types
Genre: Choking, Injury, Injury Recovery, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, War, a little ooc, but it's understandable because tord is just worried, it's complicated - Freeform, the graphic depiction isn't even that bad but just for precaution, tord chokes a man and boils his skin with his mechanical hand basically, yes they're dating in this.. kinda maybe?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-29
Updated: 2019-03-29
Packaged: 2019-12-26 03:27:03
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,268
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18274829
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spinalfluidsample/pseuds/spinalfluidsample
Summary: Tom was hurt. Badly hurt.Tord can't get the Brit off his mind. He visits him multiple times a day, stares blankly at his work that was due weeks ago, and even dreams about the scene over and over again.Shit, did he even get to tell Tom just exactly how much he meant to him?





	Two-Fourty-Three

**Author's Note:**

> ayyyy i was hesitant posting this on ao3 but like, here i am?? 
> 
> anyways I tried experimenting with a new writing style but I don't know how to feel about it, trial and error my dudes

Scribbles here and there and paper torn to shreds as the clock threatingly ticked fast and the blinding neon green flashing in his mind without a hint of ever disappearing. Wondering and wondering and tapping and tapping with those damn soldiers barging in every second presenting a finished task and a new assignment ( _sick of it, so fucking sick of it_ ) and they just piled on with seemingly no end, knowing nothing could ever end in this damn world and those thoughts could never end as he stared at a blank state and tore yet another scribbled piece of paper that did no use to a busy man. A busy man who couldn't think clearly, a busy man who wanted to snap his table in half and snap the necks of hundreds of fucking rebellion soldiers at the same time. 

Mercy? Fuck mercy, a life was at stake. A preventable life was at stake and now he just couldn't bare to think of dead or alive once they would capture the asshole that started it. No, _oh no_. Not dead or alive but just dead and dead and dead and dead and a brutal one at that. Who was preventing him? Nobody because the one man who shed humanity in his sovereignty was fucking dying right before his eyes. 

Eyes. Eyes.. It was always the eyes. Half burnt to a blinded crisp, guns and knives and beacons of radiation straight through the black voids that he swore he almost found comfort in. Sweet looks and hardened glares with blazing frustration. Never could fate fail at doing the most ironic outcomes. An eye for an eye it seemed, but in this case it was one for two. 

He slammed his hands on the desk littered with burnt and torn paper, chair flying back from the jerk of the seat and boots clicking furiously on the bloody floor. 243 on the left by the potted plant. 243 on the left by the pottet plant. He walked, he paced he jogged and he ran. Fuck work, fuck the army, fuck leadership. How could he do any of those things when he knew that the man he cared for was bedridden? Scat shit, bullcrap. Running and running to the medical wing for the umpteenth time. Nurses must've been sick of their own leader by now. 

He ran and he ran, only to come to a complete stop. Shit. Security doors that scanned for identification was absolutely worth it but damn was it inefficient.

He tried walking in calmly but the doctors saw his shaking hands and his dilated pupil, they've seen it for weeks end and they let their leader in with no words to be exchanged. None needed to be exchanged. How could he even talk when he can't handle the anticipation of waiting for Tom to say sweet words that he's missed oh so much anyways? Proper dictator etiquette flew over his head and even his soldiers felt the tense air polluting the base. 

It seemed he knew Tom's room by heart because he had no need to scan each room for confirmation. 243 on the left by the potted plant, 243 on the left by the potted plant. Identification. _Click_. Enter. Tord was in once and for all, wall covering Tom's body from eyesight but the flowers by the window clear as ever. Maybe it was stupid that he brought flowers everyday of the week for Tom. Maybe it was stupid he'd visit Tom three times a day. Maybe it was stupid he'd a lot of times sleep on the chair sat right next to Tom. Shit, what else could he do? Send thoughts and prayers to a dead man walking? Tell himself that everything was going to be alright? All he could do was stay by his side like he couldn't before and wait till he wakes up so the doctors could do a compete diagnosis on Tom. It sickened Tord to his stomach that he was this helpless, it sickened him that he couldn't even help make a cure for the unknown entities that kept Tom bedridden ( _what were his doctors useful for if they can't even do their job?!_ ).

He snarled at himself and stepped forward, yet immediately softening at the sight of Tom spread across the sheets. Soft breathing. Death breathing. Knots of hair and bandaged eyes. Curled up fists and weak trembling. Cold feet. Come on now, wake up Tom. Stay with me Tom. Don't leave me Tom. I'm sorry, Tom. This could've been preventable but I failed to protect you, Tom. _Det er min feil at du er så nær død, Tom_! 

Staring, moving, holding. His hand ever so gently pressing against Tom's cold face as if pressing harder would shatter his skin, kneeling down and moving the tangles of hair out of Tom's face. He smoothly rubbed his thumb along the side of his face, beautiful features that he finally had the time to admire. Defined cheekbones, soft lips, sharpest collarbone he had ever seen. It was always too dark to admire Tom whenever they were in bed. 

Feeling calmer than before, Tord stood up and grabbed the cup by the plants. He filled it up with water in the patient's restroom, feeding the thirsty plants that he vowed to take care of. Maybe because it kept his mind off things, but once Tom wakes up he'll just keep Tord's mind off of the plants. _If he wakes up_. 

Tord inhaled, setting the cup down. 

Speaking of which, he sat himself down too. Right by Tom's side. Hands clenched together and hovering over his knees. 

Somehow now was when he realized how nauseous it made Tord to look at Tom in this state. 

So he squeezed his eyes shut, forcing himself to sleep in that uncomfortable yet familiar chair. Tom was all he can see when he opened his eyes yet clenched shut brought back the gunshots and soldiers than rushed in to attack. Sunset at peak and blood spilt like wine, shifts of gazes only went to more blood and more dead bodies of his soldiers that he could name out right then and there. Tord hated to admit, but despite the numbers of army men he had, loosing even a few caused his stomach to churn. But he knew better than to dwell on it during battle. So he shot, and he shot, and he shot. 

Gunshots were faster than the blink of an eye but grenades were slower, and that's why Tord hated himself for not running sooner when he saw one coming straight to his right-hand side. 

Yet it was a dud. 

A distraction. More soldiers from the resistance than Tord could count came rushing in to the frozen Red Army men. Bullets between the eyes, knives in heads, blood curdling screams louder than any gunshot. But one. One was different, aimed at Tom. Pull. Push. Trigger. Shoot. A beam of light right through the skull. Not between the eye but _instead through it and Tord swore he was moving quicker than his mind could process and Tom was on the ground and his hands were tightly wrapped around that soldier's pretty little neck of his and his left hand burning through that thin skin, boiling layers and layers until it bubbled and browned and_ —

Tord was always a light sleeper. 

He woke up to the sound of a disgruntled groan. Split second brought him to snap his head up and rush towards Tom's sides. Split second caused his heart to stop right when he laid his eyes on the man. He was Intertwining their hands together tighter than ever. 

"Tom, baby," Tord started, choking at his words. "How do you feel?"

It took Tom a minute. Tord was patient. 

"Wha... Huh?" He looked around, only to realize his entire vision was blackened out from bandages. "Shit, my head.." Tom inhaled, hand gripping Tord's tighter ( _as tight as he could_ ) and turned to the source of the voice, recognizing that metal hand anywhere. That accent. The worry. Actually, the worry was kind of new. 

"Fuck, Tord.." He brought his free hand towards Tord's face (at least, tried to) and struggled to find his cheek. But he made it, and cupped it softly. "Did I black out or something? All I remember was uh, the battle?" He tried smiling. "I feel like I'm having ten horrible hangovers all at once right now. And I'm used to hangovers. Shit Tord, am I fucking dying?"

Tord shook his head, holding the hand at his cheek and pressing his lips gently against Tom's knuckles. "You were close. But you're awake now."

Tom leaned into his pillow, desperately trying to ignore his furiously throbbing head, chewing at the inside of his lip. "Can you fill me in on the details before this migraine kills me for real?"

The Norwegian squeezed his eyes shut. 

"Yeah.. Well, you were rushed in by resistance soldiers first of all. Did pretty good defending yourself until someone shot you with a radiated gun." Tord rubbed circles on the back of Tom's hand. "Prototype, luckily. Otherwise you would've suffered severe brain damage if you even had any matter left."

Tom felt himself shudder.  
"Okay.. Then I'm fine now or..?"

Tord sighed. "Unfortunately the laser burned through your optic nerve. It was when we discovered that this wasn't the first time you were shot with a laser, and found an underlying tumor growing in your head."

"Hah. Okay, _shit_."

"Dont worry, we managed to remove it." Tord smiled softly, only to quickly frown. "Well now that you're awake though.. We can see if it damaged any of your normal bodily functions."

Tom stayed silent for a brief moment, his free hand making its way up to his bandaged face. Numb. Figures. He bit harder at his cheek. The realization was just dawning on him. 

"Damn. Alright." Tord held Tom's hands again, and the Brit would've been happy with such a gesture if he hadn't felt Tord's trembling fists at his own. 

"Hey, c'mon now.." Tom whispered, turning his head towards the direction of Tord. "It's okay. I'm awake now, I'm awake after uhh.. How many..?"

"Two weeks."

"Two weeks. See? That's not so bad, it wasn't long enough to last months."

Tord chuckled dryly. "Longest two weeks of my entire fucking life."

Pause. And then another sigh.

"Tom.. I-I was so fucking scared y'know? One second the resistance rushes in and then another I see you on the ground." Tord bowed his head, gazing at the cold hospital floor. "I didn't even run to your side, I immediately ran to the fucker that shot you..." He furrowed his eyebrows. "Shit, I was just so _angry_ Tom. I choked him and it wasn't even the lack of air that killed him; it was the fourth degree burns and it just felt so good at the time y'know? But now I just feel horrible for not running to your side—"

"Tord." Tom interrupted. "Listen, if I was in your shoes, I would've clawed out that man's neck right then and there too." He began laughing, was it really that funny? "Don't feel guilty Tord, I can tell you were worried sick. My eyes are bandaged but I already know that you probably look worse than me from lack of sleep."

Tord smiled. ( _And god, he hadn't smiled like that in weeks_ ) 

"Again; I'm awake now, I'm not dead yet.  You're here with me and it'll be like that for a very long time." 

Tom moved his hand towards Tord's cheeks for a second time, pausing when he felt something warm running down the side of Tord's face. 

"... Uh.. N-Now c'mon, how about we get these bandages off so I can confirm my theory? I don't think you realize it, but I really want to kiss your face right now." He laughed again, Tord's hands instantly in contact with the white ribbons at his face. Untangle. Turn. Fall. Untangle. Turn. Fall. It seemed like forever when Tord was unwrapping each strand from Tom's face, gently piling up on the bed. Untangle and untangle, unwrap and unwrap. Tom felt like a birthday gift right about now. 

And finally it was off. Those beautiful voids exposed to Tord once and for all. He could stare at them for ages and never get bored. He could think of so many gorgeous things to compare Tom's eyes to. He could sit there and compliment Tom hours upon hours, smothering his face in kisses because he realized he's never gotten the chance to before Tom got shot straight in the skull. He never had the chance to truly tell Tom how much he really loved him. And now he can, never letting go of his dearest ever again. Never. 

Yet.. ( _Why was Tom silent?_ ) 

"Tom?"

"Oh.. Hah, uh.."

Tord blinked. "What?"

"I guess my perfect twenty-twenty vision won't come back any time soon." Tom turned to the darkening blur that made up Tord's face. He was wishing it was caused by the tears clogging up his eyes but Tom knew better than that. He knew better. 

Immediately, Tord brought Tom to his chest and they stayed like that for a while. He was whispering sweet-nothings into Tom's ear, rocking him back and forth as if it would sooth him. As if it would cure him from the burden. As if it would reverse time back to two weeks ago to prevent all of this from happening. 

But instead they stayed in each other's embrace until the nurses came.

**Author's Note:**

> Oh yeah by the way, Tom hasn't completely lost his vision but it's getting there. Like, everything is a blur even when it's a centimeter away from his face, and the edges of his vision are darkening. He's not blackout blind but he's practically there, my poor mans 
> 
> Honestly it was rushed at the end, and Tom should've been like more in pain after he woke up considering ow surgery and coma


End file.
